“That I have,” Phinney replied with his gentle singsong. “Worked on the New York Central as a young man, but I guess you’d say I’ve lived here just ‘bout all my life.”

Wally smiled himself, and closed his eyes to raise his head and soak in the sunshine. “I could see myself living in the country.”

Phinney was looking at Wally intently, and staring at his clothing for the first time, when Wally looked over once more. “Where’dj you say you was from?”

“I didn’t say, but I’m from Oak Park.” Wally looked forward. “Illinois.”

“Illinois, you say.” Phinney tugged at the reins lightly to slow his steeds as a horse and buggy approached, going in the opposite direction. Phinney tugged at the brim of his hat, and Wally looked to his side before twisting his hand with a smile.

Wally’s eyes were then drawn across the lake on their left to the town of Monroe, vibrant, wooden, and totally foreign to a visitor from eighty-five years in the future. Wally, who up until that moment had been half-telling himself that the wagon-and-buggy routine was an elaborate joke on the part of some unseen prankster trying to convince him that Earhart’s outlandish Box had actually worked, now gripped the edges of the seat with an intensity that would lead to more than one splinter in his hands. “Phinney?”

“Yes?” Phinney was looking not at his passenger, but smiling and waving to a pair of boys skipping stones on the otherwise-still surface of the lake that separated the road on which Phinney drove from the downtown district.

“What year is it? Tell me the truth.”

Phinney pulled at the reins to slow the wagon to a crawl and looked forward before straightening his back and looking aside yet again. “What year is it?”